


Failing to Stab Damon Is far more Frustrating Than it Should Be

by ThatThembo



Series: Practice Makes Better [3]
Category: Andromeda Six (Visual Novel)
Genre: Damon is an ass, Damon just mocks the Traveler, Flirting, Gotta love bard cantrips, I also insinuate at one point that Damon is a bard, Knife Practice, Other, Self-Defense, Sparring, Traveler needs to learn how to use the bloody knife, once again, so sorry about the chaotic Title, so that's fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatThembo/pseuds/ThatThembo
Summary: Given that the Highness now lives with a band of mercenaries, they need to work on their self-defense. Damon decides to lend some of his expertise. Does it help the Traveler? Debatable. But do they both enjoy each other's company? Yes.
Relationships: Damon Reznor/Original Character(s), Damon Reznor/Original Nonbinary Character(s), Damon Reznor/Traveler
Series: Practice Makes Better [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020517
Kudos: 8





	Failing to Stab Damon Is far more Frustrating Than it Should Be

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Disclaimer: if you read the first part of this collection with Cal, then the first few paragraphs will look the same, but this is a different fic. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> 2\. For some reason, Damon makes me want to write as though I was a thirteen year old who just discovered Wattpad, so fair warning for the sort of vibe this may have.
> 
> Also borrowed a flirty prompt from @the-modern-typewriter on Tumblr. Go check them out!!

Wearing a shirt I borrowed from Bash, I make my way into the 'training area.' The Andromeda 6 doesn't actually have a specific area for training, but there is an area which is certainly large enough. It has a kick bag pushed to the side, several sticks that could count as practice weapons, and a handful of weights in the opposite corner. The shirt Bash lent me is a tad bigger than what I should probably actually wear if I wanted to show off any figure, but given that I really don't, I'd say we're all good. 

I head over to the kick bag. It's a decent thing, red in color and when completely lowered, the top is level with my chin. After taking a moment to appraise the bag, I shift it up a notch, the top now level with my eyes. I take another moment's appraisal, then strike. A simple jab followed by a packed cross. The kick bag wobbles in a small oscillation before stopping. 

Taking half a step back and keeping my hands up, I throw a round kick, it's not particularly strong, but still exhilarating. I get another brief oscillation and then the bag stills. Then I move to switch kicks, practically useless in a fight, but they get my heart rate up in no time. Feeling my body move back with each collision, I slow to a stop, careful to not hit the thick band of plastic supporting the bag. 

Taking in a breath before exhaling with a huff, I turn away from the bag momentarily as I decide what to next. _Fuck it, elbows_. Stepping closer to the bag I give a few elbow strikes before immediately giving that up. Elbow strikes may be fun, but the bag proves a poor opponent for that practice. 

I take a little step back and make an undignified sound as I realize that I need to come up with something else to practice now. Dropping my hands from their ready position, I turn to the pile of practice weapons when I notice the silent presence of one of my crewmates behind me. 

Choosing to ignore the man who leans against the wall a few paces away, I pick up two sticks of equal length and move back to the kick bag. The two sticks are about the same length as my arm and I do a striking form against the kick bag. I only vaguely remember how the form goes but, fortunately, muscle memory has allowed more ease than I would have expected. 

Despite choosing to ignore Damon, I can't help making sure that my form is straight and that each strike lands true. As l continue to hit the heavy bag rapid-fire, I neglect to readjust my hold on the stand-in escrima sticks, and after one particularly good hit, the escrima flies out of my hand and ricochets off of my face.

Grunting at being hit in the face, I bring my now very empty hand to my eye and feel around the area of impact. As I do, I get to enjoy the sound of snickering from behind me. _Shit._

"Bravo, Highness. Bra-vo," Damon enunciates each syllable in mockery. It's a vicious mockery, truly. The urge to flip him off is far greater than I'd like to admit.

Instead, I say "I have my moments,'' with a sigh before moving to pick up the offending escrima. A brief search shows me that Damon already has the damned thing and is offering it to me. Maybe as an olive branch, but if I know anything about him, that is probably not his goal. "Plus, I was a tad distracted," I say, grabbing the weapon.

"You found me distracting," he says and it is not a question. And while he isn't wrong, I'd rather eat my own liver than admit it at this moment. I feel my body tense instinctively in reaction.

"You were doing it on purpose," I say because he was, wasn't he? Shit, was he? Escrima now in hand, I have to consciously keep myself from hitting the heavy bag to let all of this godforsaken tension out.

"Was I?” he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I could have simply been admiring your ferocity," he has his self-satisfied smirk plastered to his face as he says this, but the crinkle around his eyes betrayed how much he is enjoying this.

I nod almost condescendingly, eyebrows raised exaggerating my movements. "Oh, of course," I say as I move towards the weapon pile. Dropping the escrima sticks, I lean down and quickly grab a smaller stick that could serve as a stand-in for a knife, wincing slightly as I stand again. My hand goes back to the area around my eye, and l poke around tentatively, groaning softly as I push on an especially tender spot.

Damon seems amused by this. "So that's what you’d sound like," he says and his smirk grows once I catch on to his insinuation and flip him off in turn.

"So why did you venture here, I imagine this heavy bag doesn't prove to be that challenging of an opponent for one such as yourself," I say, patting the bag in question as I speak. 

Damon shrugs. "Heard you in here and got curious. I hadn't expected our little Royal to be experienced in fighting." Damon waltzes forward a few paces. "Makes me curious about how much you know." 

I look up at him and squint slightly, trying to figure out exactly what game he's playing, for he does seem to love the banter we share. 

I take my turn to shrug, for I really don't know what I know; most of this just came up like a second instinct, and while I know my way around a knife— the one he gave me still strapped to my calf— if push came to shove, I doubt I would find this ‘second instinct’ to be all that reliable. "l guess we'll just have to find out, won't we?”

Damon quirks an eyebrow, showing piqued interest. After a moment of appraising me and the way I hold the practice knife, he steps back in turning to face me square on, a look on his face which I find difficult to place. Excitement mixed with curiosity? Maybe with a bit of joy and entertainment? Either way, he looks straight at me rather than down his nose. "Alright, Highness," he lingers on the title, reveling in the look of distaste I give him in response. "Attack me,” he says, cocking his head back in a taunt 

That catches me off guard. "Attack you?" 

He looks directly at me once again. "l want to see what damage you can do with that little knife. Now, Attack me. I'm sure you've been wanting to since day one." 

He has a point there. Taking a moment to pause and figure out my next move, I make eye contact and give him a confirming look. Then, with my feet in a front stance, I take a few steps around him, observing his reactions, which are all but absent. He simply watches me, head cocked back and eyebrow quirked once again into what I now recognize as the neutral mask he has crafted for himself. 

I maintain eye contact with him and strike low, aiming for where his intestines would be. Just as quickly, if not quicker, Damon blocks the strike and redirects the momentum upwards until he has my wrist in hand in an iron grip. He lets go, and motions for me to try again. I make a simple downward-diagonal strike. Not only does he block and redirect, but suddenly I'm breaking my own fall as he performs a trip or some sort of throw on me. I rest my head on the ground in defeat and he quirks the side of his lips up before standing and watching me recover to my feet.

As we continue, I try a few similar attacks, but all end with him in control of the situation. Back open strike: he's immobilized my knife arm and 'kneed' me in the chest thrice. Classic Forward stab: he’s performed a wrist lock on my hand and elbowed to soft skin above my neck and beneath my chin. Downward ‘The Shining’ stab: I'm back on the floor again. 

I rise to my feet once again. Damon has his hands in his pockets and looks unimpressed. "You are going down, Reznor," I say matter of factly as I decide my next move.

"On you? Let’s not pretend like you could handle that without begging, shall we?" he says this with a proud smirk, and my mouth goes dry.

I would like to tell him to suck my dick, but that statement would not help me at this moment. "You think me one to beg?" He knows I don't like asking for things. That much about me is obvious to anyone, let alone one who is adept at reading into one's body language and reactions.

"I think even you would beg after-" I take this opportunity to stab him. His eyes widen in the briefest of surprises and as he moves to block the first hand I quickly swap which hand the knife is in and land a hit to his gut.

He relaxes his defensive position and lets out a sort of humored scoff through his nose. "Well done, Jasper," he says softly given our proximity before freeing the hold he has on my first hand. My face is flushed from the flirting, stabbing, and now the warmth which radiates from his body as we are still pressed close together.

Consciously telling myself to Back the fuck up, bro! I drop my hands to my sides from their offensive position. "Thanks, Damon," I say, my voice more breathy than I was expecting it to be.

This is a dangerous interaction we are sharing.

Not because of the practice 'knife,' but rather the tension which it could cut. Do I want this tension to be cut? I feel my chest tightening and yes, I do want the tension to be cut, but I don't know in what way.

Recovering far more quickly than myself, Damon slides his hands into his pockets and watches my various reactions. His face is guarded, his mask securely in place, and I can't help but feel that I've disappointed him in some way.

I let out a breath of air which I had apparently been holding and suddenly, subconsciously, I feel my own mask slide into place. One which is calm, collected, and diplomatic.

But do masks mean anything if you know what lies beneath?

"Thank you, Damon," I say with a formal tone that I wish I didn't have, the tension shifts and lessens. Not cut, but like a hole in a balloon, the tension alleviates with a pitiful wheezing sound.

He squints at me, seeing my mask, and shrugs. "Yep." He takes a step back and moves to the exit. "See you 'round. Get Ryona to check your eye."

I blink and remember the swelling from where I got hit earlier. With a smile of my own, I call out "Concerned for me?" It's a taunt. A little one. It says that the masks do jack shit. He spares a glance over his shoulder, "Nah, but she'll have my head if I didn't tell you to see her," and then "See ya', Jas."


End file.
